Maeve adjusted the collar of her jacket, a nervous habit she hadn't quite shaken even after all these years. The pub was emptying out, leaving just a scattering of late-nighters and the low thrum of conversation. Happy Lowman, slouched comfortably in the booth opposite her, took a long swig of his beer.
"Another one?" she asked, gesturing at his glass.
He grunted, a sound that was surprisingly affectionate. "Nah, I'm good. You?"
Maeve shook her head. The last pint had made her bold, maybe a little too bold. She’d been sitting on this thought for weeks, months even, and the alcohol had finally eroded her usual reservations.
"Happy," she started, then hesitated. Her gaze flickered around the dim interior, then back to his familiar face. His eyes, usually so unreadable, held a comfortable warmth she’d always appreciated. "Friends kiss each other, right?"
Happy froze, the beer glass halfway to his lips. He blinked slowly, once, then twice, his expression a mixture of surprise and something she couldn't quite decipher in the dim light. A slow, almost imperceptible smile started to spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He set the glass down with a soft thud.
"Sometimes, Maeve," he rumbled, his voice a little deeper than usual. "Sometimes they do."
He leaned forward, slowly, giving her all the time in the world to pull away. But Maeve didn't. She met him halfway, and the kiss was soft, a little clumsy, and utterly perfect.
They pulled apart, a comfortable silence settling between them. Maeve’s cheeks felt warm, and she risked a glance at Happy. He was looking at her, a soft, uncharacteristic smile still playing on his lips. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a tenderness that made her heart flutter.
"Well," she finally managed, her voice a little breathy, "that was… nice."
Happy chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down her spine. He reached across the table and gently took her hand, his thumb tracing slow circles on her skin. "Yeah, Maeve. It was."
He paused, his gaze searching hers. "So, uh… are we still friends, after that?"
Maeve squeezed his hand. "Better than, I think."
Another silence stretched between them, but this one was different. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of long-standing friendship, but something new, something full of unspoken possibilities. The pub around them faded, the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses becoming background noise. All that mattered was the warmth of Happy’s hand in hers and the gentle promise in his eyes.
"You know," Happy said, his voice a quiet murmur, "I've been wondering about that for a while too."
Maeve's eyebrows shot up. "You have?"
He nodded, a faint blush rising on his rugged cheeks. "Yeah. Just never knew how to… bring it up." He squeezed her hand again, a little tighter this time. "Glad you did."
Maeve leaned back, a wide, genuine smile spreading across her face. The knot of nervousness she'd carried for so long had completely unravelled, replaced by a lightness she hadn't realized she was missing. "Me too, Happy. Me too."
The last of the pub's patrons began to filter out, and a barman started stacking chairs. Neither Maeve nor Happy moved. They just sat there, hands clasped across the table, two friends who had just discovered they were something more.
The rumble of the bikes was a familiar lullaby to Maeve Blackwood, but today it grated on her nerves like never before. She sat at the bar of the clubhouse, a half-finished whiskey sour sweating in front of her, the words she needed to say twisting her stomach into knots. Chibs Telford, her Chibs, was across the room, laughing with Jax, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth. He looked so carefree, so perfectly in his element. How could she disrupt that?
Finally, the crowd thinned. Jax and Tig had taken off, leaving Chibs alone, wiping down the bar with a methodical ease. He caught her eye, his usual crinkled smile softening his scarred face. "Everything alright, Sassenach? You've been quiet all night."
Maeve took a deep breath, the stale scent of beer and exhaust filling her lungs. She slid off the stool and walked over to him, her hands clammy. "Chibs," she began, her voice barely a whisper.
He stopped wiping, his blue eyes searching hers, the smile fading slightly. "What is it, love? You're looking a bit green."
She fumbled with her hands, looking down at them. "I... I have something to tell you."
His hand reached out, gently tilting her chin up. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together. You know that."
His touch was a lifeline, and she clung to it. Taking another shaky breath, Maeve looked him square in the eye, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess herself. "I'm pregnant."
For a long moment, silence descended on the clubhouse, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. Chibs's hand dropped from her chin. His eyes, usually so full of life and mischief, were unreadable. Maeve's heart hammered against her ribs, convinced she'd broken him, broken them. She braced herself for anger, for fear, for anything but this stunned silence.
Then, slowly, a slow, wide grin spread across his face, lighting up the old scars. "Pregnant?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble of disbelief and something else she couldn't quite place.
Maeve nodded, tears pricking at her eyes. "Yeah. Pregnant."
He pulled her into him then, a crushing hug that stole the air from her lungs but filled her heart. His hand went to her stomach, resting there with a reverence that brought fresh tears to her eyes. "A bairn," he murmured into her hair, his voice thick with emotion. "A wee Sassenach." He pulled back, his eyes shining. "Are ye sure? Really sure?"
She laughed, a watery, joyful sound. "Yes, Chibs. I'm sure."
He kissed her then, a long, deep kiss that tasted of whiskey and promises. "This... this is good, Maeve. This is really good." He held her tight again, swaying slightly. "We're havin' a baby."
Maeve leaned into him, the fear replaced by an overwhelming wave of relief and love. The future was still uncertain, life in Charming always was, but with Chibs by her side, a new life growing within her, she knew they would be alright. They always were.
Warnings: soa, blood, guns, fights, hospital, near death.
Word count: 3,616.
Maeve Blackwood masterlist
Chibs Telford: (549)
Chibs Telford, with his perpetually scarred face and a gaze that held the weight of a thousand grim riders, found his world shrink to a pinpoint of agony the moment he saw Maeve fall. They’d been at the cabin, their sanctuary nestled deep in the Redwood curtain, a place where the roar of Harleys was replaced by the rustle of leaves and the gentle murmur of their shared peace. Maeve, all fiery spirit and an unwavering kindness that still astonished him after all these years, had been tending to her small garden, humming a tune only she knew.
He’d been inside, cleaning his cuts from a particularly brutal run-in with some rival club, the familiar scent of antiseptic mingling with the pine. Then the crack. A sharp, distinct report that ripped through the afternoon quiet. Chibs was out the door before his mind even registered the sound, his hand instinctively going for the knife tucked into his boot.
Maeve was on the ground, clutching her leg, her face a mask of shock and pain. A glint of metal in the undergrowth – a ricocheted bullet, a stray round, he didn’t know, didn’t care. All he saw was Maeve, vulnerable, broken, because of his life.
He was on his knees beside her in an instant, his gruff voice surprisingly gentle as he assessed the wound. It was a nasty graze, deep and bleeding freely, but thankfully not a direct hit. Still, the sight of her trembling hands and the faint whimper she let out tore at something fierce and primal within him.
"Hold still, lass," he rasped, his own hands surprisingly steady as he applied pressure with a clean rag. His eyes scanned the treeline, every shadow a potential threat, every rustle a sniper. He knew this feeling, the constant vigilance, the paranoia that was part and parcel of being a Son of Anarchy. But to have it intrude upon Maeve, upon their peace, was a betrayal he felt in his very bones.
Later, as he bandaged her leg, his movements precise and practiced from countless battlefield repairs, Maeve looked at him, her eyes still wide with a lingering fear. "It's alright, Chibs," she whispered, her voice a little shaky. "Just a scratch."
But it wasn't just a scratch. It was a stark reminder. A bullet that hadn't found its intended target, but had still struck home, leaving its indelible mark not just on Maeve's leg, but on Chibs' soul. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her, a scent that was life and home and everything he fought for. He had always known the risks, accepted them as part of the cut he wore. But to see Maeve hurt, to know it was a direct consequence of the chaos that followed him, was a bitter pill.
He tightened his grip, the familiar roar of his club’s engines suddenly sounding hollow in his ears. He was a Son, through and through. But in that moment, with Maeve in his arms, Chibs Telford, the enforcer, the hardened warrior, was just a man, desperately trying to shield the one he loved from the storm he carried within him. And for the first time in a long time, the weight of that storm felt impossibly heavy.
Happy Lowman: (577)
Happy Lowman sat on the edge of the examination table, his knuckles white where he gripped the pristine paper. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the usual smells of leather, exhaust, and gunpowder that clung to him. Across the room, Maeve lay on the bed, a pristine white bandage stark against her dark hair, her eyes still a little unfocused from the mild sedative. A concussion, a few stitches above her eyebrow, and a nasty bruise blossoming on her cheek – all because some rival club decided to send a message by targeting the people closest to the Sons of Anarchy. And Maeve had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the crossfire when they'd hit the clubhouse.
He’d seen plenty of blood, plenty of pain, inflicted it himself more times than he could count. But seeing Maeve, so still and vulnerable, had ripped through him in a way a bullet never could. His usual grim satisfaction, his cold detachment, had shattered the moment he saw her fall. He’d gone primal, a blur of rage and fists, driven by a fear so profound it made him feel sick.
A quiet groan from the bed pulled him from his dark thoughts. Maeve’s eyes fluttered open, slowly focusing on him. A weak smile touched her lips. "Happy," she whispered, her voice raspy. "You look like you swallowed a wasp."
He managed a rough approximation of a smile back, the corners of his mouth twitching uncomfortably. "Just worried about you, darlin'." He reached out, his calloused hand gently touching her uninjured cheek. His thumb stroked her skin, a gesture of tenderness he rarely showed.
"I'm fine," she said, though her wince when she tried to shift betrayed the truth. "Just a bit of a headache. You should see the other guy."
Happy let out a low, guttural chuckle, the sound rusty from disuse. "Oh, I did. He won't be seeing much of anything for a while." His eyes, usually so cold and unreadable, held a depth of concern that surprised even him. He hated this feeling, this vulnerability, but he hated the thought of her being hurt even more.
"This is your life, Happy," she said, her voice softer now, her gaze unwavering. "This is part of it."
He knew. He’d always known. But knowing didn't make the knot in his stomach any smaller. He was a reaper, a bringer of chaos, and that chaos had brushed against the one person who brought him a semblance of peace.
"Doesn't make it right," he muttered, looking away.
Maeve reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. "It's okay, Happy. Really. I knew what I was getting into. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Not if it means being with you."
He looked back at her, truly looked at her. Her small, brave smile, the strength in her eyes even through the pain. And in that moment, a strange warmth spread through his chest, a feeling he rarely experienced. It wasn't happiness in the traditional sense, not a bubbly joy, but a deep, quiet contentment, mixed with an unwavering, fierce protectiveness. He was Happy Lowman, enforcer for the Sons of Anarchy, and he would burn the world down before he let anyone hurt her again. This job, his life, it was dangerous. But with Maeve by his side, it was a danger he was willing to face, every single day.
Jax Teller: (435)
It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind where the sun slanted golden through the grimy windows of the clubhouse, making dust motes dance in the air. Jax Teller sat at the head of the table, the weight of the gavel feeling heavier than usual in his hand. He was deep in the latest mess with the Mayans, his mind a whirlwind of strategies and threats.
Then his phone buzzed, Maeve's name flashing on the screen. He answered, a casual "Hey, baby," on his lips. But the voice on the other end wasn’t hers. It was a paramedic, calm and professional, explaining that there had been an incident. Maeve’s car, T-boned at an intersection. She was conscious, but on her way to St. Thomas.
The world seemed to tilt. The Mayans, the clubhouse, the gavel – it all faded into a dull hum. Jax was on his feet before he even registered moving, Bobby and Chibs trailing behind him, their faces grim. The ride to the hospital was a blur of flashing lights and the sick lurch of his stomach.
He found her in the emergency room, pale against the white sheets, a bandage wrapped around her head, and her arm in a sling. But her eyes, those beautiful, fierce eyes, were open. They met his, and a silent accusation, sharp as a blade, passed between them.
"Jax," she whispered, her voice raspy. "What was it this time? Was it them?"
He knelt by her bedside, taking her uninjured hand. Her skin was cool, and for the first time in a long time, he felt truly powerless. He wanted to lie, to tell her it was a random accident, but the truth, ugly and unyielding, was in her eyes. "It was... related, baby. They were sending a message."
A tear tracked down her temple. "A message, Jax? To you? And I’m the one paying for it?" Her voice was laced with a pain that went deeper than any physical injury. "I can’t do this anymore. This life. Every time you walk out that door, I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll see you. Or if it’s the last time I’ll be safe."
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. He had built his life around the club, around the roar of the engines and the loyalty of his brothers. But looking at Maeve, bruised and broken because of his choices, he saw the true cost. The sacrifices he demanded weren't just his own. They were hers too, and she was done paying. The road ahead, for the first time, looked starkly, terrifyingly empty.
Juice Ortiz: (535)
"Juice, watch out!" Maeve's scream was a strangled gasp, followed by the sickening thud of her body hitting the alley wall. Juice Ortiz spun around, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Two rival prospects, their faces contorted with a mix of fear and aggression, were already scrambling back into their beat-up sedan. They’d been sent to send a message, and Maeve, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, had become the unfortunate punctuation mark.
He was beside her in an instant, the rage building in his gut a hot, sickening wave. Her eyes were fluttering, a thin trickle of blood staining the corner of her mouth. "Maeve? Maeve, talk to me!" he pleaded, his voice rough with panic. He gently cradled her head, her usually vibrant red hair now matted with dust and sweat.
She groaned, a small, pained sound. "Juice… my side…"
He tore open her jacket, his fingers trembling as he felt for the injury. A rapidly blooming bruise was forming on her ribs, and he could tell by the way she flinched that it was more than just a bump. This wasn't some random mugging; this was because of him. Because of the patch on his kutte, because of the life he led.
"It's okay, baby, it's okay. We're getting you to Chibs," he muttered, trying to project a calm he didn't feel. Chibs, with his medic experience, was their best bet. Getting her to a hospital meant questions, and questions meant trouble. Trouble Juice couldn't afford to bring down on Maeve.
He carefully lifted her, the weight of her limp body a crushing burden on his soul. Each step he took felt like a betrayal. He'd promised her a life away from the club's shadows, away from the violence that clung to him like a second skin. He'd wanted to shield her, to build a quiet, normal existence. But the Sons of Anarchy rarely let go, and neither did their enemies.
Back at the clubhouse, the sight of Maeve, pale and gasping on the infirmary table, tore at him. Chibs, his face grim, worked with practiced efficiency, bandaging her ribs, muttering reassurances. Juice stood by, a silent sentinel, the guilt a suffocating shroud.
Later, when she was resting, medicated and finally asleep, he sat by her bedside. He traced the delicate line of her jaw, the faint scar above her eyebrow from a childhood accident. He’d loved that scar, a small imperfection that made her even more beautiful to him. Now, she had new marks, marks he was responsible for.
He closed his eyes, the image of her crumpled form in the alley replaying in his mind. He knew, in that moment, that something had to change. This wasn't just about him anymore. It was about Maeve, about keeping her safe. And if that meant making choices he'd always shied away from, then so be it. The life of a Son, the brotherhood he'd bled for, suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, one that was slowly but surely closing around the woman he loved. And Juice Ortiz, for the first time in a long time, felt truly, terrifyingly alone in his decision.
Opie Winston: (687)
It was a Tuesday when the world went sideways for Opie Winston. Not a Tuesday in the club, not a Tuesday on a run, but a Tuesday at home, the kind of Tuesday he lived for. Maeve was humming in the kitchen, making her terrible, wonderful tuna melt, and Opie was on the couch, half-watching some documentary about deep-sea creatures, half-listening to the domestic symphony of their life.
Then the front door exploded inward.
It wasn't a clean break, not like in the movies. It was a splintering roar of wood and metal, followed by the sickening thud of bodies. Opie was on his feet before the dust settled, his hand already gripping the cold steel of his Beretta. But his eyes, they were on Maeve.
She was on the floor, a dark stain blossoming on the pristine white of her apron, a low moan escaping her lips. The tuna melt lay forgotten, scattered amidst the debris.
"Maeve!" His voice was a raw, guttural sound he barely recognized.
There were two of them, masked and armed, already fanning out into the small living room. Opie didn't hesitate. One shot, then another, the deafening cracks echoing in the confined space. The first fell, clutching his chest, the second staggered back, surprised, before Opie was on him, a whirlwind of fists and fury. He disarmed the man with brutal efficiency, the shotgun clattering to the floor, and then a final, bone-jarring punch to the jaw sent him sprawling.
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by Opie's ragged breathing and Maeve's soft whimpers.
He was beside her in an instant, tearing at her apron, his fingers fumbling. "Where, baby? Where are you hit?"
She coughed, a wet, rattling sound that sent a jolt of ice through his veins. "Shoulder," she whispered, her eyes fluttering. "Just… my shoulder."
It was a lie. He knew it even before he saw the blood, welling up from beneath her hand, dark and arterial. Not the shoulder. Lower. So much lower.
The ambulance ride was a blur of flashing lights and frantic voices. Opie held her hand, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of her knuckles, his mind racing, trying to piece together who would do this, who would come for her. It wasn't about him anymore. It was never just about him, but he’d fooled himself into thinking he could keep her safe, keep her separate from the ugly reality of his life.
At the hospital, the waiting felt like a lifetime. Jax was there, Chibs, Tig, their faces etched with a grim understanding. But Opie barely registered them. All he saw was the closed door to the emergency room, the quiet hum of the machines inside.
When the doctor finally emerged, his face was tired, but not grim. "She's going to be okay, Mr. Winston," he said, and the words were like a reprieve, a sunbeam breaking through the darkest storm. "Bullet went clean through. Lost a lot of blood, but we stopped it. She's strong."
Opie sagged against the wall, a shaky breath escaping him. Okay. She was okay.
He saw her later, pale but awake, a small smile touching her lips when she saw him. "Hey," she whispered, her voice weak.
"Hey yourself," he managed, his own voice still rough with unshed emotion. He sat beside her, taking her hand. "I'm so sorry, Maeve. This… this is my fault."
Her eyes, full of a love that both grounded and terrified him, met his. "No," she said, her grip surprisingly firm. "This is them. Not you." She squeezed his hand. "But, Opie… maybe it's time. To think about what's worth fighting for."
He looked at her, truly looked at her, her face pale against the white pillow, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to her skin. And for the first time in a long time, Opie Winston, Son of Anarchy, didn't think about retaliation, or revenge, or the next club run. He just thought about Maeve, and the quiet, ordinary Tuesdays he wanted to spend with her, safe and unbroken. And he knew, with a terrifying clarity, that things had to change.
Tig Trager: (833)
It was a typical Charming street night, if "typical" included the thrum of Harleys, the scent of stale beer, and the ever-present hum of danger. Tig Trager, Sergeant-at-Arms for the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original, was on a run with the boys, nothing out of the ordinary—just a little persuasion needed for a rival club infringing on their territory. He lived for this, for the brotherhood and the rush, but tonight, a cold knot of unease had settled in his gut. Maeve had called earlier, complaining of a migraine. He'd told her to take it easy, promising to be back before dawn.
The job went south, fast. A simple intimidation tactic erupted into a full-blown firefight. Tig, a blur of controlled chaos, was in his element, but a stray bullet, meant for him, found purchase in the arm of one of their prospects, sending the kid sprawling. In the ensuing chaos, Tig saw an opportunity to flank their attackers, ducking behind a parked van. That’s when his phone vibrated, an incoming call from Maeve. His thumb hovered over the answer button, a flash of irritation warring with a surge of worry. He was in the middle of a warzone. He couldn't answer. He couldn't.
He fought his way through the rest of the skirmish, the roar of his bike filling the night as they finally pulled away, leaving a trail of smoke and bad intentions behind them. But the victory felt hollow. The knot in his stomach tightened with every mile closer to home. When he finally burst through the door of their small, cluttered house, the silence was deafening.
"Maeve?" His voice was rough, laced with the lingering adrenaline of the fight and a growing dread.
He found her in the bathroom, slumped against the wall, a rapidly spreading crimson stain blooming on the pristine white of her shirt. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, and a broken mug lay in shards on the tiled floor.
"Tig?" Her voice was a bare whisper, barely audible above the frantic pounding of his own heart. "I… I just got dizzy. Fell. Hit my head on the sink."
He was on his knees instantly, his hands, usually so adept with a knife or a gun, trembling as he tried to assess the damage. A deep gash bled sluggishly at her temple. And then he saw it – a small, dark bruise forming on her stomach, just below her ribs.
"Maeve, what happened?" he demanded, his voice hoarse with a fear he rarely allowed himself to feel.
"I tried to call you," she mumbled, her eyes fluttering shut. "A car… spun out of control… on the street outside. I looked out the window. Just a second. It just… went so fast. A piece of flying glass, I think. Then the dizziness."
A piece of flying glass. From the shootout. From his shootout.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. While he was out there, dealing out his brand of justice, the chaos he invited into his life had spilled over, finding its way to the one person he vowed to protect. He remembered the calls he'd ignored, the one from her. The one where he was too busy being Tig Trager, SOA Sergeant-at-Arms, to pick up.
He scooped her up gently, the weight of her frail body a stark contrast to the heavy burden in his chest. As he raced her to the hospital, the sounds of the siren an accusatory wail in the night, all he could see was her pale face, and all he could hear was the echo of her whispered words: I tried to call you.
In the sterile waiting room, the fluorescent lights mocked his grimy clothes and the blood under his fingernails. He sat, head in his hands, the guilt a suffocating blanket. He was Tig Trager, the crazy one, the loyal one, the one who lived for the club. But what good was any of that if it meant the person he loved most paid the price for his life?
When the doctor finally emerged, her words were a blur, but two phrases cut through the fog of his despair: "concussion" and "stitches." And then, the doctor's eyes, meeting his, held a silent judgment he couldn't escape.
Later, as Maeve slept fitfully in the hospital bed, Tig sat by her side, his hand clasped in hers. Her skin was cool, almost translucent. He looked at the lines etched on her face, the faint scar above her eyebrow, the tiny freckles on her nose. He saw the life they could have had, the one that didn't involve sirens and gunshots and late-night calls he couldn't answer.
He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this life, his life, was slowly but surely taking everything from him. And as he watched the steady rise and fall of Maeve's chest, he wondered if the price of being Tig Trager was finally becoming too high to pay.
Jax Teller stood by the open garage door, the smell of oil and stale beer a familiar comfort. He was running a rag over the chrome of his bike, his mind a turbulent storm of club politics and personal demons. The last thing he expected was Maeve, her usually vibrant eyes shadowed with an unreadable emotion, to walk in.
"Jax," she started, her voice barely a whisper, and his gut tightened. Maeve rarely came to him with trepidation; she was fire and fight, a force that matched his own in many ways.
He straightened up, turning to face her, his gaze intense. "What's wrong?"
She wrung her hands, a gesture he'd never seen her make. "I... I have to tell you something."
A million scenarios flashed through his mind – a rival club threat, an internal dispute he hadn't yet caught wind of, a decision she’d made about leaving Charming. But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him for the words that followed.
"I'm pregnant, Jax. It's yours."
The rag slipped from his fingers, clattering to the concrete floor. The roar of the clubhouse, the hum of the garage, even the frantic beat of his own heart seemed to fall silent. His world, already teetering on the edge of chaos, had just been irrevocably tilted.
He stared at her, his blue eyes wide, a mixture of shock and disbelief warring across his face. Pregnant. Maeve. His baby. The words bounced around in his skull, foreign and yet deeply, profoundly resonant. He saw the fear in her eyes, the vulnerability he rarely glimpsed, and a primal instinct, fierce and unexpected, surged within him.
He took a step forward, then another, until he was standing directly in front of her. He reached out, his calloused hand hovering uncertainly over her still-flat stomach. It was a tentative gesture, almost reverent. "Are you... are you sure?" His voice was rough, barely audible.
Maeve nodded, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. "Yes."
He closed his eyes for a moment, processing. A baby. His baby. In this life. His life. The thought was terrifying, yes, but beneath the terror, something else was stirring. A spark. A flicker of hope in the relentless darkness he inhabited. This wasn't another burden; it was... it was something else entirely. A promise. A chance.
When he opened his eyes, the shock had begun to recede, replaced by that familiar, unreadable intensity. But now, there was something new there too – a profound protectiveness, a fierce resolve. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away her tears.
"Hey," he said, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
He pulled her into him, holding her close, her head resting against his chest. He could feel the fragile hope blooming within him, a tender shoots in the barren landscape of his existence. This wasn't the life he'd ever imagined, not for himself, and certainly not for a child. But looking down at Maeve, feeling the warmth of her against him, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would fight for them. He would fight for this baby, for this fragile new beginning, with every breath in his body. The road ahead was still treacherous, but for the first time in a long time, Jax Teller felt a glimmer of something resembling peace.
"You must be Happy," Maeve said, extending a hand as she stepped into the dimly lit garage. The scent of oil and old cigarettes hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort to her.
The man who rose from beneath a truck, wiping grease from his hands with a rag, was exactly as Jax had described: broad, a bit rough around the edges, and with eyes that held a surprising depth. "And you must be Maeve," Happy Lowman grunted, his voice a low rumble. He took her hand, his grip firm. "Jax said you were… coming."
Maeve smirked, a quick flash of humor in her usually serious expression. "He has a way with words, doesn't he?" She glanced around the garage, taking in the organised chaos. "So, this is the legendary garage."
Happy just nodded, a slight flicker of something in his eyes that might have been amusement. He leaned back against a workbench, crossing his arms. "What can I do for ya, Maeve? Jax said you needed… a favour."
Maeve met his gaze, her smile fading as she got down to business. "I need a set of wheels. Something fast, reliable, and discreet. No questions asked." She knew Happy was the man for the job, his reputation for getting things done, no matter how unorthodox, preceded him.
Happy studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Discreet, huh?" he finally said, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "You've come to the right place."
The hum of the bikes was a familiar lullaby to Maeve, but tonight, it was just background noise to the thrumming in her own chest. She watched Juice, perched on an overturned crate, meticulously cleaning his kutte. His brows were furrowed in concentration, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his forehead.
"You know," Maeve began, her voice a little too loud in the quiet of the garage, "that cut on your arm is pretty deep, Juice. You should let me look at it properly."
He grunted, not looking up. "I'm fine, Maeve. Just a scratch."
She sighed, pushing herself off the wall she'd been leaning against. "A scratch? Looks more like you arm-wrestled a rabid badger and lost." She knelt beside him, gently pulling his arm closer. He tensed, but didn't pull away. The cut was indeed nasty, jagged and still seeping a little.
"You're always getting into something," she murmured, dabbing at the wound with a clean cloth from her first-aid kit, a permanent fixture in her bag whenever she was around the Sons. "You'd think after all this time, you'd be a bit more careful."
Juice finally met her eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "And you're always there to patch me up, aren't ya, Maeve?"
Their gazes held for a moment, the air thickening with an unspoken something. Maeve felt a blush creeping up her neck. She knew Juice. Knew his anxieties, his loyalty, the way his smile rarely reached his eyes unless he was truly happy. And he knew her – her stubbornness, her sharp tongue, and the soft spot she had for the broken men of SAMCRO.
She finished bandaging his arm, her fingers lingering on his skin for a beat too long. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant sounds of Charming.
Then, almost a whisper, Juice said, "Friends kiss each other, right?"
Maeve's breath hitched. Her eyes flickered to his lips, then back to his questioning gaze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't a question she'd ever considered, not in this context. Not with Juice. Friends hugged, friends teased, friends sometimes even fought. But kiss?
"Sometimes," she managed, her voice barely audible.
His hand, the one not recently impaled, reached up, his thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw. His touch was feather-light, sending shivers down her spine. "Yeah?"
Maeve leaned in, closing the small distance between them. His lips were soft, hesitant at first, then growing more confident as she responded. It wasn't a fireworks kiss, or a movie-moment kiss. It was slow, tender, and tasted faintly of motor oil and unspoken affection. It was a kiss that held all the years of shared glances, quiet comforts, and unspoken understandings.
When they finally pulled apart, both slightly breathless, Juice's eyes were wide, and the faint smile was still there, but this time, it reached them.
"So," Maeve said, a small, triumphant smile curving her own lips. "Guess we're really good friends, then, huh?"
Juice chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Yeah, Maeve. The best." He squeezed her hand, and in that moment, under the fluorescent lights of the garage, surrounded by the ghosts of bikes and the rumble of a distant highway, it felt like the truest thing in the world.
Maeve adjusted her grip on the wrench, her brow furrowed in concentration. The old motorcycle engine, belonging to Chibs, was proving more stubborn than usual. "You know, for a guy who claims to be a mechanical genius, this thing's putting up a good fight," she quipped, not looking up.
Chibs, lounging on a nearby oil drum, took a slow drag from his cigarette. "It's got character, Maeve. Takes a special touch." He watched her for a moment, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Like you."
She finally got the bolt to turn, a grunt of satisfaction escaping her. Wiping grease from her hands with a rag, she glanced at him. "Smooth talker. Still doesn't explain why your 'character' here keeps stalling."
He slid off the drum, walking over to her. "Maybe it just needs a little encouragement." His eyes, usually so sharp and knowing, softened as they met hers. He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, leaving a faint smudge of grease on her cheek.
Maeve's breath hitched. The air in the garage, usually thick with the smell of oil and petrol, suddenly felt charged with something else. She could feel the warmth of his fingers against her skin, the subtle scent of leather and something uniquely Chibs.
"Encouragement, huh?" she whispered, her voice a little shaky.
He leaned in, his gaze unwavering. "Yeah. Like this."
And then he kissed her. It was soft at first, a tentative brush of lips that sent a jolt right through her. Maeve’s mind spun. This was Chibs. Her friend, her confidante, the man she’d spent countless hours with, joking, arguing, fixing bikes. This was… different.
But then, as his hand cupped her jaw, and the kiss deepened, a warmth spread through her, chasing away the confusion. It wasn't just different; it was intensely, surprisingly right. Her fingers, still greasy, curled into his shirt.
When he finally pulled away, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling. Chibs' eyes were dark, a question in them.
Maeve, her heart hammering against her ribs, finally managed a shaky smile. A laugh, half-nervous, half-elated, bubbled up. "Friends kiss each other, right?"
Chibs’ grin was slow, spreading across his face, a genuine, unburdened joy she hadn’t seen in a long time. "Sometimes, Maeve," he murmured, "they do." He kissed her again, this time with a certainty that left no room for doubt. The motorcycle, for once, was completely forgotten.
Prompt: 4. "Walk out that door and we're through."
Maeve Blackwood masterlist
The fight had been brewing for days, a slow, simmering pot of resentment that finally boiled over. Marve stood in the middle of their cluttered living room, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jax leaning against the doorframe, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else – on his bike, at the clubhouse, even in jail.
"I can't keep doing this, Jax," Marve's voice was low, trembling with an anger she was trying to suppress. "Every single time something big happens with the club, you just… disappear into it. And I'm left here, waiting, wondering if you're even coming back."
Jax pushed off the frame, his blue eyes, usually so warm and inviting, were now cold, distant. "It's what I do, Marve. It's who I am. You knew that when you got with me."
"I knew you were a Son of Anarchy, Jax, not a ghost! I knew there would be dangers, but I thought we were a team. I thought we were building something here, together." She gestured around the small house, a silent accusation of all the plans they’d made, the dreams they’d shared.
He scoffed, a bitter sound that scraped against her nerves. "Building what, Marve? A picket fence and a dog? That's not my life."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her carefully constructed composure cracked. "So what is your life, Jax? Endless violence? Constant fear? Watching everyone you love get hurt or worse?" Her voice rose, raw with emotion. "Because that’s what this is! And I can’t live like that anymore. I can’t."
Jax took a step closer, his face etched with a familiar defiance. "Then don't."
Marve stared at him, her heart clenching. This wasn't the man she'd fallen in love with, not the man who'd promised her a future, however uncertain. This was the hardened outlaw, the one who put the club above all else, even her.
"What did you say?" she whispered, barely audible.
"I said, then don't," he repeated, his voice devoid of warmth. He gestured towards the door behind him. "Walk out that door and we're through, Marve."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final, a death knell to everything they had. Marve's breath hitched. She looked at his face, searching for any flicker of doubt, any sign that he didn’t mean it. There was nothing. Just that cold, unyielding resolve.
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the familiar lines of his face. She loved him, God, she loved him more than anything. But she couldn’t sacrifice herself for a life that was slowly, surely, destroying her. She couldn’t keep waiting for him to choose her over the club, a choice he clearly wasn’t going to make.
Slowly, deliberately, Marve reached down, picked up the small duffel bag she’d packed in a fit of desperate resolve earlier that day. Her hand trembled as she clutched the strap.
Jax watched her, his expression unreadable, though a muscle twitched in his jaw.
"Is this really it, Jax?" she asked, her voice cracking.
He didn't answer. He just held her gaze, unwavering.
With a sob that tore from her chest, Marve took a shaky step towards the door. Each movement was agony, each breath a struggle. She passed him, the scent of leather and gasoline clinging to him, a cruel reminder of their life together. Her shoulder brushed against his, and for a fleeting moment, she almost faltered.
But she kept going.
She reached the doorknob, her fingers fumbling with the cold metal. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by her ragged breathing. She heard no protest from him, no desperate plea for her to stay.
With one last, heartbroken glance over her shoulder at the man who was both her greatest joy and her deepest pain, Marve twisted the knob.
The door opened, letting in the late afternoon sun and the sounds of Charming, a world that suddenly felt vast and empty without him by her side.
She stepped out, and the door swung shut behind her with a soft click, a final period on their story.
